Of the Bones Below
by L. Honoria
Summary: Reclusive after the death of her mother, Belle takes to walking at night. After reaching the shoreline, she encounters a man who will soon haunt her. Rumbelle AU. OOC. Updates will be sporadic.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is my first attempt at writing in six months. If it seems far-fetched, it is based on what I know. Please forgive errors._

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Belle paused in front of the variant shelves and displays of her father's shop. After making adjustments to objects she deemed to be out of place, she moved to another site of disarray. In the same room, Moe, her father, drifted behind a large table cluttered with items used in the creation of floral arrangements. Empty vases framed his workplace.

The overhead lights were low and of a copper tone, casting the room in the warm tint of sepia. The flowers were in places made silhouettes in the altered light, others were changed to soft browns and ambers. Bordering the shelves were frosted gold Christmas lights nestled in dried moss.

Belle had recently assembled along the lights and moss miniature houses made of objects unearthed from forest beds. The structures stood in shadow, save for their doors, rooves and other varying points, which were bathed in the faint glow of strung lights. A crooked windmill stood amid the houses; along with a tower, a well, and other fixtures of civilization. She liked to imagine the village had been abandoned after its people returned to their native land, wherever that happened to be.

The radio was playing beside Moe, and absently he hummed along with songs he didn't know the lyrics to; more focused on the memories they awoke than his work. His hands gave the impression of independent movement.

Belle looked out the window, past the sections of ivy covering the glass. Pre-twilight was quickly fading, and the stars were becoming visible. Her arms were crossed, and as a ghost she could see the reflection of herself in the window; her green sweater and the haze of white that made up her face and limbs. The October air could as a whisper be felt seeping in through the edges of frame.

"You'd best go out while there still some light."

Belle turned to face her father. He didn't look up from his task, lost in the song playing, Al Stewart's _The Year of the Cat_. "I'll close up as soon as I get these done. There's no sense in you staying in here, all cooped up." His voice was warm as it reached Belle, gently nudging her. "That is, if you feel like it."

Belle brushed her fingers against the rough face of a sunflower, considering her father's suggestion. The music in the air brought with it a sense of melancholy she wished to leave behind. Outside, though it would trail her, its spirit would not be the same as in. "Maybe I will go out."

She turned to face her father, the blue glow from the window backing her figure as she approached and embraced him. When she stepped away, Moe could see in her eyes hints of her past self. "I'll see you later, papa."

"See you soon, my girl. You be careful," he said happily, pointing at her with a wash rag.

"I will," she assured him. Her steps were placed backwards until she reached the door, which she opened and tightly pressed herself through. She left him with a timid, "See you."

Stepping outside, Belle's hair and clothes were wildly blown by the wind, her body made to turn inward. Ducking her head and folding her arms against her chest, she made a fruitless attempt to acclimate herself to the change in temperature. She was wearing only a light sweater over her cotton dress and leggings and wondered if it would be enough. Debris flew around her feet and across the street, hitting against the sidewalk lightly.

The air spoke of Autumn harvest, changed and fallen leaves, while, at the same time, Summer remained in the periphery and called out with empty promise.

Wind chimes could be heard in the distance along with the rustling of tree branches. A breeze, through a break in storefronts, softly flew over Belle's face and the hem of her dress, and, for a moment she was of a mind to imagine its touch was the coolness of a hand. A man's hand brushing back her hair. As the sensation came into focus in her mind, slowly morphing into an image, one of a hunched figure whose face was blurred and in shadow, there was sent into her a chill remote to her body. It rose from her core and spread, leaving through the mounds of bone behind her ears. She kept on, trying not to think of the faceless apparition asking for her name. Her hand.

Belle had only recently taken to walking in the evenings and at night. Leaving the house had become increasingly difficult after the sudden death of her mother almost a year before. For want of solitude, she chose late hours in which to make herself known to the forces outside her home.

Speaking with townspeople worsened her already heighten anxiety. Their casual words and her own made in reply weighed on her mind, hours - even days afterward. She wanted to avoid judgement, questions and words of sympathy regarding her recent loss. It made little difference if discussion turned to matters unrelated. She didn't want to make polite conversation of any sort, not while bearing so much pain. Not with so rapid a pulse.

In the weeks after her mother's death, Belle's thoughts and emotions had manifested until grief was all that formed her. Inconsolable, she was no longer a person in whole; her outer layers chipped away until she was made bare; her soul a hovering thing, like smoke. Her days merged into nights and were vacant, clouded over with sleep. Sometimes her evenings were spent with her father in the warmth of their kitchen, silently lingering about the room as he cooked. Listening while across her face shadows passed. After they'd eaten, she would either return to bed or sit with Moe in the living room. Her life played out as though viewed and lived by someone else.

As time passed, a longing awoke deep within in her. The part of her soul that required adventure began to surface. At first she was reluctant to act at its behest, a voice inside her telling her that she didn't deserve to go out. She believed that leaving the house, to behave as she had in the past, would dishonor her mother. As though her passing were of little consequence. Stepping outside didn't seem right. It was under the open sky that Colette's life had been taken.

There were more memories in the house than out. Every room had etched in its grains the voice and movement of her mother. As Belle passed over the areas that used to hold Colette, it was almost as if they had never let her go, and that through them a window could somehow be opened. Belle had trouble telling the difference between the past and present. It was too difficult for her to accept that the routine of her former life was incapable of renewal.

Belle remained the same until her outlook was abruptly changed by the appearance of her mother in a series of dreams. In them, Colette emerged from the forests lining Storybrooke, walked the sidewalks of town streets, and, more often than any other setting, she waited for Belle along the shoreline bordering the docks. Together they would speak as they had in life, as if simply renewing conversations from where they'd left off, both aware of the fact that Colette had died. Though she often forgot their content, the dreams brought to Belle a feeling of ease she hadn't known since her mother's passing.

Despite knowing that most would dismiss the notion, Belle truly believed her mother was visiting her by such means. She started sharing the details of her dreams with her father whenever they would allow themselves to be recalled. When unknowingly she relaid a message to him from Colette, a joke between the two that had occurred while her parents were courting, something Belle could not have known, and that Moe had forgotten, her doubts - and those of her father - were assuaged. Noticing that in her dreams Colette's visits took place outdoors, Moe said to his daughter, "Don't you see? Your mum wants you to join her outside."

Belle knew as soon as he had said the words that they were true. In her dreams her mother had not once appeared indoors, though in life she was often prone to spending the entire day inside with a book.

Another change came in Belle noticing that, though the house held memories of Colette, it seemed to no longer contain the warmth of her presence. The suspended weight that came in knowing she was in the house before given any indication. Belle could, in the past, not long after her mother's death, easily imagine that Colette was still alive, asleep in her room. The door remained closed; and though she couldn't see beyond it, Belle knew now without having to look that her mother was no longer there. Her spirit absent. With her but, at the same time, not.

One evening, due to his wife's persuasion, Moe was able to convince Belle to accompany him on a walk. They didn't go far, only a couple of blocks the first night. Even at that, it was as if a small piece of herself had been returned. A note secretly slipped under a door.

Over time, as Belle rediscovered her love for the inanimate qualities of life, they would go so far as to have Storybrooke's docks within sight before turning back.

Feeling stronger, Belle later went unaccompanied. She didn't feel unsafe on her own. After living with such loss, she'd discovered fear couldn't touch her as it once had.

She met her father at his floral shop almost every evening at closing and walked home with him for dinner. Moe often told his daughter he was proud of her and would encourage her to continue making progress. In the future, he told her, she would find herself by the marina, and once she'd made it that far, it would be only a few additional feet before she'd make it to the shoreline.

The future was perhaps what she'd seen that night in the blurred reflection of her father's window, for the shoreline was Belle's destination as she set out.

She'd made it past the many storefronts and was nearing their end. The docks were within sight. In the distance, a lone fishing boat could be seen swaying on the waves.

She shook her head then her fingers, sending invisible embers to the ground. For a moment she contemplated going back, but instead decided to fight by running forward. She ran as though she were being chased and as fast as she was capable, halting only once she'd set foot on sand. Catching her breath, elated, she walked in a circle as she searched the silvery expanse of water, the glittering lights and buildings of the town behind her.

In an attempt to reach out to her mother, she stilled herself after she'd calmed down and imagined her consciousness as it drifted from her body. Tethered, it pulled from between and behind her eyes. Smoke from the ends of her fingers where before embers had left in sparks.

When the sound of falling stones reached her, Belle returned from wherever she'd strayed. Her gaze fell instantly on the dark outline of a man in the distance slowly stepping over an uneven shore of rocks. His head raised as his line of sight moved from his path and to her, having sensed her presence at the same moment she'd spotted him.

She panicked and looked away before she could judge his character or face, and with her hands in her pockets, she started to walk quickly in an opposing direction in order to avoid him.

After walking a few steps, she looked over her shoulder to discern if the man was still alongside the water. When she found him as she'd seen him in her mind's eye, standing with his back to her, where she'd been moments before, she lost her sense of unease.

When finally she was well away from the beach, and on her way back home, Belle began to look forward to speaking with her father over dinner.

She hoped he would be as equally pleased that she'd finally reached the area seen most often in dreams.

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	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This was written before the fifth episode of the current season. My television antenna wouldn't cooperate, so I was unable to take in any more than a few minutes of said episode. In that time, I heard that a herbalist would be visited. The introduction of such a place in my story is purely coincidental._

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Belle's dreams ceased after that night.

Arriving at the conclusion that she'd misinterpreted her mother's wishes, she came to regret ever having reached her goal. Moe, eager to ease his daughter's pain, reassured her that it was like Colette to be mysterious, mischievous even, and that her momentary departure should not cause worry. With time she would return.

After experiencing such a change - one seemingly brought about by her own actions - Belle chose to remain inside for more than a week, hoping that by doing so things would return to normal. As time passed and a sign of promise did not present itself, Belle eventually took her father's words to heart, choosing to believe that her mother wished for her to continue her search out of doors.

It was late when she resumed her pilgrimage with spirits. House ghosts cast from their attics and hidden rooms and made to roam at night. She imagined them walking in twos and threes, their arms linked as they surveyed the town they knew in life, now changed by more than death. Belle parted ways from their idle whispers, seeing rather than feeling their gowns and jackets disintegrate into wisps of pastel as they brushed against her.

The town streets were dark as she languidly followed their sidewalks. The light the streetlamps offered was golden-orange and shone on the store windows and rain dampened pavement, creating long glistening streaks of iridescence. Copper with a soul of onyx set alight. The night was calm; warmer than the evenings before. Above and behind all else, from the shaking dome of her mind and inner sight, there were cast about as dandelion seeds images of velvet fabric; olive green, flowing as if water. A feather lost before a wall of stars.

Belle's breath was slow and even as she looked to the shadows in the corners of buildings, those across the road. Something drawing her to their seemingly endless depths as though, through an indiscernible haze, a pair of ivory hands were outstretched and reaching for her. Caressing with their sharp tipped fingers her shoulders and strands of her long hair, pulling her ever so slowly toward their place of rest. She continued, trying to hasten past the area, until - as if conjured by her thoughts - she watched in mute shock as from their abyss rose the shoulders of a man. She couldn't tell by sight the figure's gender. She simply could sense that the shifting darkness was of the male persuasion. It gave off an essence remote to the opposing sex, a tangle of emotions that, like some thoughts, had their roots in danger; mystery, a rush of excitement and fear. That which went without a name but was well known both in and out of the circles of her sex. Her first instinct was to avoid him. To all but break into a run.

She quickened her pace. His back was to her, and all she could discern was moving shadow. One spot of night faintly different from the rest, for it held life. Her eyes remained fixed on him, afraid of losing his shape.

Unaware of her actions and surroundings, she was abruptly drawn out of the moment by the sound of two people approaching from behind. Their footsteps were heavy and frantic as they ran. Theirs were the movements of those swept away by emotion, a madness of youth. Belle barely had time to make an allowance for them to pass without confrontation. She leaned against a building. Waiting; the air from her lungs was visible as it escaped her parted lips. She heard a man's laughter as it left his body in a blithe, snickering laughter that echoed off the brick walls as he dashed away. His outbursts were followed by a woman's, who, within seconds, was running past Belle. As the woman chased the man, her long red hair was the same as a spark of fire, caught in the illumination of a streetlamp. The couple's laughter merged, reaching its pinnacle once they as shadows disappeared into a distant alleyway.

Calming herself as the two dissolved into nothingness, Belle remembered to return her gaze to where the man had as a spectre lingered moments before - only to find that he too had disappeared.

Feeling more than a little wary, she changed course for a path closer to home.

~•~

Entering the front door of her house some time later, she found that all rooms, save for the kitchen, were without light. She removed her jacket, hung it on a wall mounted coat rack, and rubbed her hands over her arms. She stepped into the triangular beam of light flowing from the kitchen to the living room floor, following its trail. At its end she found her father standing beside their small wooden dining table, unwrapping a clutch of herbs from waxen paper. He looked to her, smiling as she came into view. "Ah, Belle, you're back. Hope you're hungry. I've made corned beef and potatoes. Always good on a day like this."

His warm attitude spread to her as though a spell, and she murmured her agreement as she moved around the table to the cabinets, removing plates and glasses. In a corner of the counter, her father's always present radio offered its own form of geniality with a cassette of Cat Stevens A-Sides, currently unwinding _The Wind_.

The two moved about the room, making it ready, music filling the space empty of their words. _The Wind_ faded into _Trouble_. After a moment, Moe's voice could be heard again, soft and distant. "Your mum spoke to me in a dream last night."

Belle stopped. Saying nothing, her eyelids fluttered as she accepted the information. Her father continued without knowledge of his daughter's reaction, "Belle, are you sure she's left your dreams? Maybe you're just not remembering the times she visits. Maybe another dream dreamt closer to when you wake, is all you're able to recall."

Belle opened her mouth to protest but realized that she couldn't remember having experienced any dreams since the night she'd visited the shoreline. It was as if the water had taken them from her, drawn them from her mind and under its dark currents to form small pearls. "I-I don't know."

He stirred the pot. "You've said before that you have trouble sleeping. Waking up on and off through the night. 'That happening again?"

She paused, hesitant to speak."I-I haven't been sleeping too well for the past week."

"Well, then maybe you're not sleeping deeply enough to dream. Or to recall the ones you have. Perhaps if you can sleep as you used to, you'll be able to see your mum again."

Keeping her gaze straight, she moved again towards the counter. "Yeah, but how I am going to do that?"

"Where there's a will there's a way." He exhaled heavily, removing the lid from the pot and ladling meat into a bowl.

~•~

The next morning, after her father had gone to work, Belle searched through her books for an answer to her problem. She'd been too tired to do so the night before and was anxious.

In a windowseat, with the sun enveloping her, Belle read until her eyes ached. An open notebook was in her lap, and she'd filled several pages with information she'd accumulated. Strings and strands of flowing text; abstract sketches loitering at paper's edge. Setting down the latest book she'd finished, she looked out the window and over her father's garden. Fallen leaves were cluttered around stems of echinacea and wildflowers; the rose bushes he'd planted for her.

Placing her stocking feet on the floor, she reached for the shawl she'd left draped over a chair, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Slipping on her shoes, she went out into the garden to renew her thoughts. To find ideas in the open air. Ones that would as a ring, a roll of parchment, affix themselves to her by only such means.

She passed into the light fog and over the leaves, hearing and feeling the fallen as they perished beneath her feet. Her fingers brushed over the faces of the flowers, down their prickly bodies, as she lowered herself to her knees and with her hands began to move the perfumed, decaying leaves from the flowerbed. Belle was serene as she did this, her mind slightly muddled by thoughts; some relating to what she'd read and some not. Paths were forming to different areas in the forest of her mind, each leading to different outcomes. A portion of her past and likes. Of memories.

Looking to the contents of her palm, she discovered an ashen scrap of newsprint amid the debris. A remnant from a fire. On the side facing her was a partial story she couldn't make out. Turning it over, she found an advertisement for a recently opened herbal store. The business listed supplements, teas and essential oils along with other goods, and Belle was instantly put in mind of the remedies she'd studied.

 _A sign._

Given the store's address, it was in a rather remote location just outside the woods. She questioned what sort of person would desire so isolated an area for a business. As an answer she was made to think of herself. The idea of the place intrigued her to such an extent that she resolved to give into the impulse of visiting the store. Her departure would have to take place soon if she intended to make it within its odd hours of its operation. The woods were a little over two miles from the house. On a bike it should take her an hour or so to reach them.

She raised from the ground. Brushing off her dress, she returned to the house to fetch her purse, change her clothes and to write a note detailing where she'd gone. Locking the door behind her, she walked to the shed at the end of the yard and removed her bicycle from its confines. Climbing atop it, she started off in the direction of the forest. This would be the first she'd ventured out in daylight for a very long time. The notion both thrilled and frightened her. "Mum," she whispered to herself, closing her eyes as if in prayer, "please follow me. I need to know you're there. Give me strength." Opening her eyes, she willed herself to move.

When she came to the wide, spanning fields before the woods, she could hear the cries of killdeer as she startled them. One flew a few feet before circling back, settling down into the low, sharp rows of harvested corn. She could hear other birds cry as they left their trees, and the sounds and the cool air made her think of her childhood, when she and her parents would walk the forests and fields. For an instant she was made to feel as she had then, as though nothing had changed. A strange contentment she couldn't recall ever having experienced as an adult. The feeling was gone within a matter of seconds, leaving her again as a woman, not the carefree child she'd once been.

She continued pedaling, strange feelings of disbelief continuing to wash over her.

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	3. Chapter 3

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Belle came upon a small house in an open field, standing as a lone tree might amidst far-reaching pasture. It was a modest structure, if a little bleak, and she wondered for a moment if she had taken a wrong turn. Roaming the area, searching for any indication that she was in the correct location, she noticed a small hand-painted sign in a window reading _Natural Remedies._ Another sign, this one on the door, claimed that the business was open.

Relieved to not be lost, she propped her bicycle behind a tree in an area covered with brush, far from view of the house. She used this caution should the people she encounter be less than hospital. Stepping over the thick weeds and sun-warmed grass, she gripped the door knob. Turning it she heard a bell ring, announcing her arrival.

An empty hall met her. She stepped from the hall and into what had once been the house's living room. In the absence of human contact, she allowed herself to stand beside the large fireplace on the room's south side. Its mantel was lined with small framed paintings, some so minute they were no larger than a postcard. She wished that she could touch their frames, their faces; to hold them closer to make out their details. The barrier instilled in her from childhood, of always asking permission first when in another person's house, prevented her from doing so. She saw images in muted shades, those of trees, flocks of birds, abstract shapes.

At the moment she caught sight of a painting of the shoreline, the area she saw most often in dreams, she heard the floorboards creak, announcing the entrance of another person. Belle turned, witnessing a woman enter the room dressed in emerald and black. Her aura was of sophistication and coldness, a kindness kept hidden beneath layers of fuss and indifference. Belle was able to place the woman to a moment when she'd run past her in the streets, trailing after a man. Her long pale face contained a set of memorable, unusually blue eyes and was framed by waves of carefully styled, wavy auburn hair.

"Hello. Sorry to have kept you waiting." The woman smiled widely and clasped her hands over her lower waist, the swell of her stomach. "I notice you've been observing my husband's work."

"Your husband painted these?" Belle said, her awe just above a whisper. "They're very beautiful."

"Thank you." As the reply left her lips, she adapted another mood. "How can I help you?"

All at once the words seemed to rush from Belle, her nervousness causing her to speak from a collection of thoughts without first carefully selecting from them. She would later recall the memory with an accompanying mental image of herself removing books from their tightly stacked shelves without first bothering to read their titles. "I-I don't know if you'll have anything to help. I, um, I'm having some trouble sleeping. Well, not sleeping so much as dreaming. I sort of wake up on and off through the night. I can't remember my dreams, if I have any. But I want things to go back to normal. I want to dream again. That's why I'm here."

"I see." Her eyes moved to a corner of the room. "There's more to it though, I think."

She walked into an adjoining room, calling over her shoulder for Belle to follow her. Belle did not hesitate, springing into step behind the woman as she surveyed the contents of the room. The woman searched the well-stocked shelves and walls, removing from them small bags of what appeared to be loose tea and other items Belle couldn't at first recognize. "Has this problem been going on for a long time?"

"Now. It just started now. Last week, actually."

"Was it set in motion by any recent change in your life?"

She didn't immediately speak, not knowing how her answer might be taken. And as if the woman could read her mind she added, "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No. It's just that I don't know how to answer."

"Say it however you want, so long as its close to the truth."

"Ok." Her gaze lowered. "I'd been dreaming of my mom almost every night . . . Until I went to a place I thought she wanted me to visit. A place she kept appearing in my dreams."

The woman didn't look up from her work. "Your mother's passed on."

"Yes," Belle answered quietly.

With tact the questioner set aside the answer, filing it away for later, and altered the other woman's train of thought. "Did something traumatic happen at this place once you arrived?"

"No. I-I don't even know why she kept appearing there in my dreams. It wasn't really special. It was just a place. W-why do you need to know all of this?"

"I can't just play a guessing game. If you want to be cured, I need to know what exactly I'm curing you of. Where is this 'place' you went to?" She raised a hand casually to the air. "This time it's just for curiosity's sake."

"The shoreline . . . by the docks."

"Were you alone when you arrived? Did you see anyone nearby?"

"Yes. No, wait. I was there for a long time by myself. But I left when I saw a man coming up the beach. I didn't -I don't- know him."

The proprietress set a bottle upon the counter, finished with her search. A hand went to her hip as she set the weight of her body against a counter. "Uh-huh. And have you seen this man since then?"

"No. I don't think so. But I didn't even really see him to begin with. Not well enough. He was too far away, and it was dark."

"I see," she said a second time. "Most vexing. But I now have an idea of what's happened. It's going to be a little tricky to rid you of your ailment, but I've done it before. And I daresay I'll do it again."

Belle shook her head, taking in the words. "Wait, you think you know what's going on? What can I do?"

"I wouldn't feel comfortable saying anything until I know for certain. But I think if you drink this you'll see things begin to return to normal." She held up a small pouch of dried herbs and flowers.

"What is it?"

"See for yourself. I mixed it before you. Nothing here that will harm anyone." The counter was strewn with small packages, a mortar, and the woman made a sweeping gesture with her arms, indicating that the counter was Belle's to examine.

Belle accepted the invitation with hesitance, stepping forward. Once she was close enough to peruse the items, she heard the woman's fingernails tapping softly along the wooden counter. She was right, all that Belle saw could be bought at the local store or grown from her own garden.

"My name's Zelena, by the way."

"I'm Belle."

Zelena extended her hand for Belle to shake, the charms on her bracelet chiming. Belle accepted her hand, cool like the room. "It's nice to meet you. Though I strangely feel as though I know you already."

Belle's only reply was a smile. She had no words in her mind, none she felt quite comfortable with, other than to ask the price of the mixture.

The woman reached under the counter before answering and emerged with a small bottle in her grip. She tiredly exhaled. "I've taken a shine to you. I'll include this with the tea for . . . Oh, say, fifteen dollars." Seeing Belle's questioning look she spoke again without prompting. "It's an oil blend. A sample to get you going."

Belle reached into the purse at her side and withdrew enough money to pay and receive change. "Thanks."

"I expect to see you back in here soon. I'd love to know how things work out."

Belle made certain not to commit herself, exiting with a soft, "Goodbye". She hurried to her bike, hoping desperately that it was still there. Some small animal-fear always in the back of her mind, warning her. When she found the bike as she had left it, she placed the brown paper bag in her purse, readying herself for the return trip. She stood still for a moment, letting her heart match her head.

~•~

After dinner, she stole away to her room. While she waited for her tea to cool, she decided to open the bottle of oil. Peeling away its brown paper wrapper, she held the wax lipped bottle under her nose. Inhaling, she made out a warm scent; one composed of clove, lavender, rose and spices. Something distant wavered underneath, a scent she couldn't place. Something deep, hidden; of dark places. She set the bottle down, feeling a bit heady — tired from the day, from talking — and returned to her tea. Its consistency was thick, its taste sharply bitter, but she emptied the cup before entering her bed, determined that it should work.

~•~

When she slept, she dreamt of herself walking alone through a forest, fog coiling around her ankles. Her steps were placed without sound, as all the forest had cast about it a spell. Spreading through the air was a strange, tangible clarity — a burst of citrus — that was the same as the fog hovering above the ground; white and eerily calming. Belle aimlessly followed trails until she came upon a path leading out of the woods. She followed it into the open air, and with her departure from the woods sound was returned to her. The wind was what she first heard over her ears; through her hair, the tall grass and swaying trees. The wave-like gusts of autumn, rather than the warm sounds associated with the beginning year or the nearly silent cries at its end.

Her steps placed her in an open field — a field much like the one she'd visited earlier - only it was farther reaching, stretching almost as far as she could see. The sky above was a light gray and vacant of clouds. It was as she surveyed the land that she heard carried with the wind a voice. A soft voice singing. She left the moment of ease the wind and hills had created and went in search of the person sending forth their voice on the wind like a moth. A leaf into a stream.

The melody was slow and lonely. Calm, like the lull bestowed upon those who linger under water. The fleeting urge to, while under depths, fall downwards and into sleep. The sound was what she focused on, for it overwhelmed all else. The presence of an organ within a chapel. The song was one she'd heard before, long ago perhaps, or maybe recently but had forgotten. She couldn't tell. She felt a deep connection to it, and it appeared in her mind as a crevice in the land, one that made open to the world things previously hidden.

In the openness of the field, the man was easy to spot, crouched some distance from her in the hollow of a hill, his knees held tightly to his body; his head lowered. And she walked through the gale to him, her body fighting its strength as it pressed into her, molding her dress to her body. She needed more than anything to comfort him, to take him into her arms and rock him as his tears became a part of her; soaking through the cloth over her shoulders and into her skin. Making his misery hers, taking it from him and purifying it so that it was no longer the same as the pain of death. To grant to him some of the happiness she'd been given over the years, for he was mourning the loss of someone he held dear. She knew his state. She could sense it from afar, as it was often her own.

When finally she reached him, she dropped to her knees; hearing his already weak voice give, breaking with the lyrics he now recited in whispers, as prayers. He grew silent now that he'd been found.

Belle brought the man into her arms, pressing his head to her collarbone. Pushing him to her with the buried hope that by touch far-reaching wounds would heal.

He cried onto her skin, his mouth opening as he gasped for air. She could feel the heat of his breath damp on her blouse, adhering to her. She looked down, wanting to take in his face, wanting to know the man she was cradling.

Brushing the wet strands from his eyes, she was met with the features of a man she believed she already knew. A face she felt she had almost always known, somewhere in the back of her mind.

These features were by mass and bone attached to the hands that had before this moment reached out to her. Those white and glistening claws that she often thought of as wanting to claim her in the night.

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~•~


End file.
